Reciprocity
by industrialists
Summary: It's said a good king shouldn't rule alone. A good king should probably also not rule on the advice of Ben Finn. Short bits and pieces from the lives of Ben Finn and the King of Albion - often vitriolic, frequently reckless, but always loyal.
1. One

There's a touch more blood than he's used to, the bitter smell of gunshot, and a lot of people complaining. It's late evening or early morning in Mourningwood, and the Prince thinks it's appalling that he can't remember which. But it doesn't matter, not really, because he's got cuts on his hands from the sharp bits of his gun, and he thinks some little shards of Hollow Man might be stuck in there, but at least he's not dead like a few of the army boys. The blood in his head is still thrumming, despite it having been more than an hour since the last shots were fired. Is that a Will thing? He doesn't know. He'd accidentally set his sleeve on fire the day previous, because he forgot he had his gauntlets on. Will discipline is a habit you should develop quickly.

Shaking some mud off his pistol, he goes to see what he can do. In the centre of the fort, amidst broken wood and bone, Ben Finn is standing over a few prone figures, murmuring something or other to the Major. The Prince supposes they know what they're doing, and doesn't fancy traipsing over to look at the dead. Wasn't he supposed to be stopping this sort of thing? Losing half of the people you were asking for help within about two hours of meeting them isn't a success in anyone's books.

Ben looks up and gives him a little nod. What with all the commotion of the Hollow Legion paying a surprise visit, he hadn't had chance to talk to any of the Swift Brigade properly, but the captain seemed alright. He had let him use the mortar with minimal training and no health and safety briefing. He'd also been the last one to regain consciousness after Simmons had become a bit upset about being dead and knocked them all out. Ben had promptly cornered the Prince upon waking and apologised for being useless.

Maybe he's in over his head, too.

The Prince finds a bit of outlying fort looking out over the burial grounds and sits down on a fallen stone. Stagnant, cold, wet air, the atmospheric equivalent of being slapped with a pair of wet trousers, but it's better than watching them tally the dead and pop dislocated limbs back in. If anyone asks, he's making sure that the perimeter's clear. Technically someone should actually have been doing this, but the Swift Brigade is a little understaffed at present, so he won't mention it. With nothing on the horizon demanding his immediate attention, he takes to inspecting his wounds. Definitely a bit of bone splinter in there, as well as quite a lot of grime and mud. He hopes he won't have to have his hands cut off, because that would somewhat put a dampener on his glorious revolutionary career. Best not to think about it.

'Hope you're not planning on wandering out into the swamp,' says Ben Finn, from behind him. 'Because I'm not going after you.'

Ben leans against a bit of wall and crosses his arms. He looks reasonably intact, save for messy hair and a slight coating of bone dust. There is, however, a rather large welt on his cheek.

'I wasn't planning on it,' says the Prince.

'Good, because it's a real problem in this neck of the woods. Do you know why Mourningwood never has a problem with overpopulation? Half the village sinks into the ground every six months.'

'Really? Nothing to do with the smell?'

Ben laughs. 'Oh, you noticed? Yeah, the faint aroma of dead people and broken spirits doesn't help.'

'And the Hollow Men?'

'Bloody nuisances. And rude to boot. Just because you were rubbish at life doesn't mean you're allowed to try and make everyone miserable when you're dead.'

The Prince isn't quite sure if that's how Hollow Men work.

'What happened to your face?' says the Prince. He wasn't going to mention it in fear of sounding rude, but Ben seemed alright. Besides, he was at the level of tiredness where his willingness to respect social boundaries had gone out of the window.

Ben grimaces. 'Er, well, it was hard to tell in the scuffle but I think one of the lads got a bit over enthusiastic swinging his elbows around. Not a scratch by Hollow Men,' he says, lifting his arms to show his uniform hadn't taken any damage.

Well.

'You've got red on you.'

'I know,' Ben picks at the sleeve of his shirt. 'That's been there for ages. And I think it's mine. My point remains.'

'You're lucky,' says the Prince.

Ben grins. 'I'm good. You'll not find a finer shot or a sharper wit in fifty miles.'

The Prince laughs. 'We'll see about that. I mean, I'm not sure if you've heard, but I am a Hero.'

'You say that, but you looked bloody terrified when the ground started shaking.'

'At least I managed to stay conscious throughout.'

'Yeah, must have been nice being out of harm's way over in the corner. I saw you backing away like a twit.'

'I did no such thing. By the way, it's incredibly reassuring to see the people who are supposed to be helping me stage a revolution passed out on the floor. Really good.'

'Shut it, you. We haven't even said we'll help yet, so wouldn't be giving me cheek if I were you.' says Ben. He shoulders the Prince along the stone slab so he can sit down next to him.

'You're not going to say no, though?'

Ben shrugs. 'That's Swiftie's decision. The rest of the Brigade seem to think you're alright.'

'Including you?'

'I'm a trusting person, which upon reflection is probably why people try to rob me all the time. I think you'll be fine. Granted, 'the Brigade' as of now consists of about five blokes, but, there you go. Tick had a dog we used to dress up, but he buggered off after we tried to put him in a helmet.'

A little blue wisp coasts lazily through the air, pulling for a target. Ben spots it first. They watch it plunge into the ground a good distance away, and then there's a stir and a rather laboured groan from beneath the soil. A straggler. Ben gestures towards the Prince.

'I'll let you have this one.'

The Prince loads his pistol. He hasn't practiced much with this one and it's a brass-worn flintlock with a creaky barrel and a scratchy handle. He's very aware that Ben is watching him with a sharpshooter's eye, so he tries hard not to miss.  
Patiently, they wait for the Hollow Man to drag itself through topsoil, shake the mud out of its ribcage, and start shambling towards them. From the corner of his eye he sees Ben lean forward a little to judge his aim. Right then.

The shot splinters through naked bone and right into the Hollow Man's forehead, hitting his helmet on the far side and dropping down through its ribs with a plink. Perfect, if the Prince says so 's a pleasing puff of bone dust as it judders to a halt, looks as surprised as a reanimated skeleton can, then drops to the floor and gives up entirely.

The Prince shrugs at Ben to let him know how effortless the affair was, and gets a smirk in return. They watch for any more activity, but it seems as though the Hollow Legion has got the idea. Ben runs through the 'Mourningwood Cremation Program For The Inconveniencing Of Hollow Men' he's been devising. The Prince hadn't asked to hear it.

'Are you not upset?' says the Prince after Ben's finished speaking, more quickly than he probably should have.

'What?' says Ben. By this time he's shrugged off his rifle and is messing with the firing mechanism.

'You just lost about half of your company men,' says the Prince. 'Are you not upset?'

Ben stops what he's doing. A hint of a frown crosses his face.

'Only a matter of time for some of them, wasn't it? I mean, if you will insist on fighting with a lute.'

'Doesn't it bother you?' Well, there we go, no going back now. The Prince thinks he should stop, but he doesn't. He's travelled too far on too little sleep, and he's fought for the favour of people he doesn't know on the word of one of the only men he can trust and he is not used to this.

'Of course it bothers me, bastard never finished reading my manuscript.'

'What about your mate? What's his-'

'Jammy?'

'Yeah.'

Ben looks at him, and the Prince regrets opening his mouth.

'You know, I heard about that little debacle at Saker's camp. You, I mean, wiping out half his mercs. Did you ask him the same?'

For a moment the Prince doesn't know what Ben's talking about. Alright, Saker had come around eventually but not before throwing a good chunk of his men at him and it was hardly his fault-

'I didn't have a choice there,' he says quickly.

'I didn't say you did. Not used to killing things yet, are you?' Ben says, looking over the marsh. 'Hadn't killed anyone before you left the castle, I bet.'

'No.' Not directly. Not on purpose. Not his fault.

'Well, try not to think about it too much, you might upset yourself. Because you asked so elegantly, then, yeah, it doesn't feel fantastic. I'd known Jammy a while. Daft sod. Bet me his collection of fancy cutlery that he could out-drink me after we'd finished killing dead things out here. I didn't want it or anything but he'd maim himself with a spoon every week or so when he was showing it off.' He leans backwards, shifting his weight onto his hands.

'Listen, I know you're a soft royal-type but you're going to have to get used to this, yeah? I don't want to come off all grim but it's bloody likely you'll see a lot of your friends die on your way to getting your arse on that throne, and you can't break down over it.'

'Sorry,' the Prince says. He picks at a piece of skin that's threatening to abandon his finger.

'That's alright, I know you didn't intend to come off as a wanker. You did, though, so maybe have a bit of a practice. And don't go into the funeral business.'

'I'll keep that in mind.'

'Oh cheer up,' Ben says, clapping him on the back. 'We won! At least there's some of us left to tell everyone else what happened. It'd be downright embarrassing if someone came to see us and we were all dead and Hollow Men were using us as chairs.'

'Thanks, I'm cheered.'

'You are welcome. Right, mate, my arse is getting numb so I'm going to find some food. Coming?'

'I'm alright, thanks.'

Ben hops to his feet and shoulders his rifle.

'Don't stay out here too long, your legs will snap off. I'm not carrying you to Bowerstone.'

'Assuming you're coming to Bowerstone. I haven't even spoken to Major Swift.'

'Have you heard him and Walter go on? He's on board. Besides, if I have to spend another week in Mourningwood I might just lie down and wait for the moss to cover me.'

'We don't want that.'

'We don't. So don't catch a chill and die.'

'I won't.'

Ben trundles off to the centre of the fort, where a couple of the lads have rebuilt the fire. Every so often one of them will toss a bit of Hollow Man into the flames, an act accompanied by a lot of cheering and swearing. Spending months on end outside will do that to you, apparently.  
But it's not the time to worry about that. The last of the light has buggered off (it was evening after all). The Prince is on the wrong side of exhausted. And there is still so much to do.

* * *

A/N: Reshuffled the chapters. I'm sorry about the long wait between updates, that's something I'm working on. Many thanks to those who have followed, favourited and reviewed so far!


	2. Two

They're drinking, drunk. Bowerstone is cold and it's not very fun, and people outside are robbing travellers for something to do. So they've retired to the Riveter's Rest, where the industrial air is heavy and the beer has bits floating in it. There's no planning this evening, the Prince is far too busy inspecting the craftsmanship of the table (shoddy) and Ben is watching people try to smash each others' faces in. He cheers every so often for the bloke with the wooden leg. Revolution is on nobody's mind tonight.

The Prince gives up on the table. It's wonky, and that's how it'll have to stay. He jams a couple of coasters under one of the legs and sets his tankard down roughly. It slides a bit, but stops short of careening merrily off the edge. Ben's got the right idea, his ale hasn't once left his hand.  
He notices, after a while spent glaring at his beverage, that Ben is giving him a bit of a sideways glance. The fight's finished, and Ben apparently isn't interested in watching the pub landlord mop up the blood and splinters. There's a stream of whimpering coming from the corner that everyone is doing their very best to ignore.

'What?' says the Prince.  
'When you go in, storm the castle, guns blazing and all that... What are you going to say?'

Apparently revolution is on someone's mind.  
'Why? When? Am I supposed to do a commentary?' The Prince isn't sure he's on the right side of sober for this. Ben smirks at him, trying to settle himself more comfortably in his chair. The seats aren't meant for sitting, really, you're supposed to find them so disagreeable that you stand at the bar and order drinks all night.  
'I was going for the moment of truth,' says Ben. 'The line you're deposing Logan with.'  
'I hope you're not asking me to engage in banter.'  
'That's exactly what I'm doing. Do you want the history books to say, well the Prince fearlessly stormed the castle, slaughtered scores of Logan's guards, came face to face with his brother, the tyrant king and went 'oh, er, hi again. I'd rather like the throne so if I could have it that'd be champion?'"  
The Prince snorted.  
'I wasn't going to do that.'  
'I bet you would've, you haven't even thought about it, have you? Bleeding useless. You're glad I'm here.'  
'Am I?'  
'Yes.'

Truthfully, the Prince is glad that Ben is here. Spending your formative years in a well-ventilated castle high above the smog and waste will rather spoil you for the real world. Though the Prince fancies himself independent and capable, adjusting to having to make your own food and wash your own clothes took a bit of getting used to. And much like scores of failed writers, heartbroken poets and neglectful fathers before him, the Prince has discovered that ale is a good distraction from your problems. Ben is wont to agree.  
Strictly speaking, they're supposed to be in hiding. Stealthy, like. Logan's guards are persistent, industrious, and bloody everywhere and they'd love to arrest the deserting prince and the rebel soldier. But the common folk don't care if you're a prince in Bowerstone Industrial because after a few pints you certainly won't be acting like one so it's all the same really. He worries sometimes, when knives are pulled or someone gives him a funny look in the street; devil-may-care might look good, but it's dangerous in practice. That's usually when Ben shoves a drink into his hand and tells him to cheer up. Ben doesn't do stealthy, he charges in and bonks people on the head with a bit of wood or whatever he can find and he makes a lot of noise.  
Ben likes to autograph his wanted posters. That's the sort of bloke he is. The Prince used to remark that this was probably the worst idea in the world ever, but Ben would shush him with either a wisecrack about how he is plenty used to being wanted _wink_, or tell him that he's investing in Albion's future, because those posters will be very valuable once this revolution fiasco is over and done with. The Prince has stopped trying.

'Right, then, any suggestions? Perhaps you'd like to do it instead?'  
'Wouldn't dream of stealing your thunder. I'm just saying, mate. You only get one crack at this so you might as well make it a good one.'

Ben claps him on the shoulder and bounds off in the direction of the toilet with remarkable grace for someone whose bloodstream is eighty percent alcohol.  
To the Prince's credit, he does have a good think. He needs something sharp and fantastic and _kingly_ – if you're booting the king off the throne you've got to sound like you mean it. The matter of quite how he was going to convince Logan to hand power over hadn't been discussed, really. In the piles of documents and plans and the whisperings in the sewers there was not one note to tell the Prince how to do that. The approach on the castle? Sorted. Where to put Sabine when there aren't things that need exploding? Done. How to get the crown on his head? We'll figure that out on the day, don't worry about it. Ben's skirting across the far end of the pub, scampering off to chat up the barmaid so the Prince knows he's got a few more minutes.  
Those few minutes pass, and the Prince has done nothing except chart the many and varied ways he could be stabbed, maimed or otherwise indisposed on the way into the castle. Falling chandeliers. They hadn't considered that one. That's going on the list.

'There's a thought,' Ben says, pushing an ale into the Prince's hand.  
'What?'  
'Do you reckon you're going to have to kill Logan?'  
'Let's not do this now, yeah?'  
'I'm just saying, what if he starts a fight? I don't think I'd be happy if my half-pint brother barged in and demanded the throne. I might kick up a fuss.'  
'I'd rather not. Wouldn't really convince people I'm not another despot, would it?'  
'It's not a revolution without a few dead royals.'  
'_Ben._'  
'Alright,' he holds his hands up. 'We'll stick to the repartee for now. I hope you've got something brilliant.'

The Prince shifts a bit uncomfortably. Ben gives him an encouraging look, which doesn't help at all.

'Let me have it.' Ben says. 'Go on. I'll be Logan, you be you.'  
The Prince decides he can manage that.  
'Right,' he says, 'I'll be like, _I'm sick and tired of you, and you're a tyrant, and I don't think you should be the king any more._'  
Ben's encouraging look is turning into a bit of a grimace. The Prince pushes on. 'So I'm going to stop you.'  
Ben's chewing his lip and he does not look intimidated in the slightest. He's not even bothering to pretend to be Logan. The Prince frowns. That's not very nice.  
'I'll have my sword out, it'll be good,' he ventures.

Looking somewhat at a loss for advice to dispense, Ben makes a little noise of discontent and pushes the Prince's ale into his hands. The Prince hasn't quite decided if he's offended.  
'Alright,' says Ben after a few moments of quiet contemplation. 'That was rubbish.'  
'Oi.'  
'Are you going to tell me otherwise? S'alright mate, I shouldn't have expected you to be charismatic. I'm sure my charm'll rub off on you eventually. You concentrate on getting your arse on that throne. Deal?'  
The Prince sniffs.  
'Deal.'


	3. Three

**Reciprocity**

Ben is eighty percent sure he's about to die.  
Dying is just what you_ do_ when you've been struck in the head so hard your vision is greying out, and your mouth is thick with blood, and you've been knocked to the floor, and you've got no idea what's going on.  
He'd hate to break tradition.

\\

They'd been trudging around Mistpeak Valley, which isn't really a treat for anyone. But the King had annoyed some should-be-inanimate garden decorations again and _I mean, mate, if you've managed that twice you're doing something wrong. _The King told him to shut up and start looking, because those runaway novelty chess pieces weren't going to shoot themselves. About an hour later, while in the middle of telling the King off for being a bit of a prat, Ben had been pistol-whipped in the face and things had gone downhill.

\\

Face-down in a considerable amount of mud, Ben is re-evaluating his life choices. It sounds like something exciting is happening just out of sight, but he tries to lift his head and simultaneously feels like throwing up and passing out. Mm, eyes closed for now. He's heard that death is a pleasant, creeping silence, but what he can hear now is mostly the King swearing. Hmm.

He wants a proper, public, expensive funeral, with a lot of people mourning very convincingly. Crying at the very least, and some wailing would be nice.  
Someone should collect his past lovers together and have them in the funeral procession, loudly exclaiming how fantastic he was. Should've written a will. He's confident the King will figure it out, it's the only arrangement that would make sense.  
He spits some blood onto the ground, and tries to figure out what's going on. Mercenaries, most likely, sneaky ones. He feels a bit useless, going down in one hit, but what can you do. He probably looks ridiculous. The King's language isn't getting any better, but it is getting louder. Ben's a bit offended that nobody's come back to finish him off. Fair enough, killing the monarch is the one you brag about to your friends, but nobody could be bothered to at least stab him in the ribs? Downright disrespectful.

Then there are arms around his shoulders and it bloody hurts. Ben groans in discontent. He's just gotten comfortable on the floor, the mud had started moulding around him like one of those fancy pillows. He's pulled roughly to a sitting position. Hears swearing again. Oh, it's the King. Ben cracks his eyes open. It makes him feel sick, but there you go. His vision is still spotting but he can see his best mate crouching in front of him, bleeding a bit but otherwise alive. That's good.

_'Stop fucking swearing'_, Ben says. The King laughs. He's feeling for injuries, checking for blood under caked mud.  
Ben tries to crack a joke, something really clever like _that's inappropriate touching_ but better. Nothing like a whack with a pistol to make the wit fall right out of your head. Speaking of which, the King's examining his face now, drawing his hand back wet with blood. Should probably pay attention to what he's saying.  
_'Stay awake, you tosser,'_ he's saying, which Ben thinks is a bit rude. '_You're lucky I'm not as useless as you are.'_  
_'Hrf_,' says Ben. He's not as eloquent as usual.  
_'You're going to be fine, you bleeding drama queen.'  
_Ben's eyes have slid shut again, and his head is pounding like hell, but now he's only twenty percent sure he's been killed. Which is good in the long run, he supposes, but right now it hurts terribly and the King is digging his fingers into his shoulders to keep him awake. No thanks.  
If the King is going to be smug about not getting a pistol to the face, he can drag him home.


End file.
